For almost two years a red and white panda bear has sat at the end of the hallway of our floor in our building. It was a cheap large doll that perhaps somebody won by knocking over bottles at a fair. It bade us farewell in the morning, propped against the wall. Sometimes, it showed marks of violence. A crushed nose. Some mornings it was on its side as if it had been kicked. But nobody moved it, not even the Super who doesn't suffer fools or panda bears. If it was upturned I and others would replace it in its spot so that it might continue to greet passersby.
On Saturday night the kids downstairs had a huge party. Fortunately we were not invited. We also didn't hear their noise, other than a few smokers who sat below our window and chatted and listened to quiet music on a radio. I woke occasionally when one of them whooped which happened more often as sunrise approached. When the sky outside grew light, the kids descended like vampires to their subterranean apartment to sleep away the day.
The light of day revealed a terrible scene. The red panda bear lay some ways down the street, more lifeless than usual. It was surrounded by drifts of its own innards, white grains of styrophoam that blew in lazy cyclones around its cloth body. In some places the white grains were an inch thick as if a midsummer snowstorm had effected only the sidewalk outside and refused to melt in the heat of the rising sun.
There is no doubt in my mind who the culprits are but as the day wore on we all became culpable as each grain of styrophoam, destined to exist forever, drifted outwards from the murder scene, great white masses moving slowly downhill towards the river. I pictured the slow avalanche off the end of the street, gradually making a floating white ribbon of ex-panda that would drift and choke its way to the sea. I waited to see if any of my fellow renters would act to stop this from happening but I could have guessed that they wouldn't. The tenants in this building are insular and stand-offish, hipsters who are more concerned with wearing recycled clothes than actually recycling. Hipsters differ from Hippies in that they have no intention of changing the world if it means they'd have no access to hair product and faux-vintage t-shirts. I've grown from being fond of the scruffy-headed children of the 90's to being furious with their self absorption couched in the rhetoric of neo-liberalism, "complain but don't do". I guess 'doing' would bring them too close a system they'd rather seen overthrown by Anarchy, which they'd be too apathetic to ever bring about. I'd love to see them in an actual anarchy, like Rwanda in 1994. It wouldn't only be Panda bears who'd be torn to shreds. My favorite scene which has played out many times on the L train, the Hipster lifeline to Manhattan, is the following: Scruffy Hipster sits reading Kant or Conrad or more likely Rowling. An extremely frail old woman, who grew up in Williamsburg and is now skipping meals to pay her rent, boards the train. Immersed in a single dense paragraph, the Hipster remains oblivious and the old woman remains standing (Hipsters also tend to be the most vocal denouncers of gentrification, as higher rents severely cut into the monthly check from their parents) Of course the Hipster isn't the only one not standing for the old woman, but they are usually the only ones reading with the pretension of self-betterment.
I finally caved and grabbed a broom and dustpan to set about heeling a minor environmental crisis. I wasn't concerned anyone would finger me as the murderer cleaning the crime scene. The whole building is too apathetic to acknowledge a crime had even occurred. I rue the day when I lie unconscious and mugged on a Williamsburg side street, inert and blocking the way of a Hipster on his way to the local vegan restaurant. I do believe I'd be stepped over, the only indication I'd been noticed at all.
Our immediate neighbor, the quietest of the three, stopped to offer help and told me about the party that had gone on all night beneath him too. He was the only person to acknowledge me or my labor. Many others passed and glanced guiltily while I swept, if they glanced at all. One girl sporting tight, carefully chosen 80's vintage smiled weakly but walked on.
Honestly it was a beautiful day yesterday as I swept the sidewalks for an hour. It was extremely pleasant to be outside doing an activity of any kind. I chatted with our above-mentioned neighbor and a passing pedestrian curious about the fate of the Domino sugar factory. My sweeping led me past the ground floor windows of the culprits and of our direct downstairs neighbor but I saw neither the whole time. Finally I'd filled a large garbage bag with puffy bits of plastic, considered turning it upside down outside the offender's door, but thought better and disposed of it properly. Our downstairs neighbor did end up acknowledging my labors in his own way, he turned his music down at midnight instead of at two in the morning.
This morning the hallway is empty, the panda is gone. It was the only mark of friendliness in a white-washed hallway with florescent lights. How many bottles do you have to knock down to win a panda?
So the news confirmed what many suspected yesterday, that a tornado struck in Bay Ridge Brooklyn. It touched down during one of the worst storms in the city's memory, three inches of rain in an hour accompanied by ferocious lightning and of course, the tornado. The rains swamped the subways bringing transit of all kinds to a sloshy halt. But of course, this all happened at about 6, which is the height of my REM cycle, so I was completely unaware. Totally and utterly oblivious, I left for work and occasioned a thought on the torrents of water still running down the gutters. My train came on time, and in fact was emptier than usual. I was astonished how quickly I arrived. I later learned that most everyone was hours late to work, or couldn't get in at all. The city had advised everyone to stay home. What else is happening while I'm sleeping I wonder? Elephant parades through my living room? Battles between River Giants? I'm a little concerned for my safety, though perhaps what I don't know will continue not to hurt me.